MOUNTAIN MAGIC with ANN HITE

Redbirds Are Messengers

I was raised by an Appalachian Granny Woman in the worst of disguises, a single woman in the city. Granny left Appalachia when my mama was six to find work during the Depression. She would never go back to live there, but she raised me to know the magic of the mountains, a place in my blood, my roots. She took me to visit my great aunts every other weekend. I was exposed to all the beliefs, storytelling, and language. Often they spoke of the cardinals being sent by those who had died. They talked about haints and conjures.

I will be honest and say I often had to be pulled kicking and screaming into believing in some of the lore from Appalachia. Believing someone dead could visit me as a cardinal wasn’t something I could wrap my head around. I mean they are birds. We are humans even in spirit. I can hear my granny saying, “Annie there is much about this old world that you don’t know, you can’t know, but if you quit talking and just watch, you might learn a thing or two.” Granny was the only person on this planet who could get away with calling me, Annie.

Much of the time, I get in my own way, especially when it comes to the ways of the mountains. The old story is that a “redbird” carries a message from the dead to a love one: mother, father, sister, brother, or dear friend. The redbird is seen as a go-between from the after world. It’s a sure sign us humans are being watched over. Nice thought.

On January 3 of this year, I received news that one of my writing students—we will call her, Sparrow—was nearing the end of her health battles. Her time here on earth was limited. When Sparrow and I stopped meeting in 2023, we were almost finished going over her second draft of her novel based on her life experiences. We had met every week in person and then on Zoom when the pandemic hit for over three years to discuss notes I had made on her amazing story. This book was important for women, and I voiced this to her. Sparrow explained a few years before we began to work together, she died on the operating table and an angel came to her, saying she wasn’t finished in the world, that she had to write her story for others to read.

The news that came to me on January 3 wasn’t surprising, but I was devastated because I knew she had grown too ill to continue work on the book. My gut twisted that she would die before this work was finished. There was no fairness in the situation.

Sparrow and I had developed a friendship while we worked on her project, spending an extra hour on Zoom talking books and writing. By this point she was housebound in another state. We were similar in our upbringing. Both of us being from Appalachia with deep family roots. I always saw Sparrow as more of a mountain girl than me because she was born and raised in Kentucky. We were different in our politics and beliefs. Had I met her outside our arrangement, I doubt I would have been friends with her. Yet with these strong differences, we remained friends, something rare these days. Sparrow taught me I could love someone even when we saw important issues from opposite ends.

Less than a week before Sparrow died, her son contacted me saying her time was near and she needed to discuss her book with me. My heart turned inside out that I would lose this friend. Apart of me understood what she wanted to discuss. That night she took a downturn and could no longer have a coherent discussion about the book. I sent her son a message saying I knew what she wanted and even though I wasn’t sure I was the right person, I would agree to her last wish. I also asked him to tell her I loved her. Later that day I would find out that Sparrow wanted me to finish her book. Her son gave me the notes he had taken while talking to her.

How does one say no to the last request from a fellow writer and friend? Even though I felt inadequate, I promised I would work on her book and help it find its way to publication. Sparrow died the next day. The morning I came to peace with this decision, a redbird came to sit on the branch hanging in front of my living room window. The redbird watched me for the longest as I moved around the room. If only Granny could have been there to see me acknowledge maybe there was something to this messenger thing from the spirit world. Sparrow was letting me know I had her approval, her vote of confidence.

As a footnote:

The redbird has come to sit on the branch beside my deck where I am writing this column.

Folks, whether you believe in it or not, there is mountain magic.